


The Art of War

by PropShopHannah



Series: Throne of Glass prompts and asks [12]
Category: Throne of Glass Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: AU, Coffee Shop, F/M, Feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-05
Updated: 2016-12-05
Packaged: 2018-09-06 17:36:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8762563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PropShopHannah/pseuds/PropShopHannah
Summary: Anon asked:  What about a coffee shop AU, if by (smutty) manorian AU you meant Earning Her Trust, I'm totally down for you to work this in however works, but otherwise, can't you just see Dorian working at a coffeeshop just because (he's rich as hell, he doesn't need to), and being aggressively (in a good way) flirtatious with customers because he's Dorian? And I can see Manon drinking black coffee so yeah!





	

“Here you go, Agatha,” Dorian said, handing the old lady her cup. “An extra sweet latte for an extra sweet lady.” He winked.

“Oh, Dorian dear,” Agatha said. “I haven’t blushed in thirty years.” Dorian leaned across the counter, pouting.

“Miss Agatha, that’s about the saddest thing I’ve heard all day.”

“Oh please, Dorian,” said Agatha’s friend Ethel. “We need to find you a nice young woman your own age. You’re wasting all your best lines on us old ladies.” Dorian grabbed his chest as if it hurt.

“Are you breaking up with me, Ethel?”

“Of course not,” she said. “Who else am I going to get to sneak me extra whipped cream on my lattes?” She winked at Dorian and followed Agatha to a table by a window. Dorian smiled. He loved this part of his job–the regulars.

He began wiping down the espresso machine, he heard the bell on the front door chime as someone entered or exited. Sensing someone's presence at the counter, he turned around.

“Can I help–” Whoa.

_ Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa. _

The hottest woman Dorian had ever seen was standing before him–barely three feet between them. Barely three feet of concrete countertop–the only thing keeping them apart.

He swallowed. Then he picked his jaw up off the floor and closed his mouth. 

She raised a moon-white eyebrow at him. He snapped out of drooling-idiot mode and back into charming-barista mode. He gave her a lazy smile.

“How may I be of service?” She managed to somehow raise her eyebrow even higher while simultaneously narrowing her eyes on him. He thought she looked infinitely amused and gloriously bored. She glanced at his nametag.

“What’s good, _Dorian_?” she said.

Trying not to think about how amazing it’d sounded when she’d said his name like something that disgusted her, he said, “Everything.” 

He winked. Her eyebrow twitched.

“Doubt that,” she said. 

“Why don’t you tell me what you like,  _ miss…? _ ” She snorted.

“Wow. Does that usually work for you?”  _ Yes, actually,  _ he thought. He tried not to bristle.

“It helps to know about the person in order to help them find what they’d like to drink.” She leaned into the counter and cocked her head. Her gold eyes burned. He thought she looked like a wolf.

“So you think asking me for my name–and winking at me like some prize to be won–is an appropriate way of finding out what I like to put in my  _ mouth _ ?”  _ Holy Hell, _ he thought. Who was this woman? He schooled his features.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I meant no offense.”

“Men  _ never _ do.” Well, she had him there. He was acting like a complete ass. He shouldn’t have treated her like she was nothing more than something to be hit on. Like she was nothing more than a potential date or lay. She was a person–just like him–and she deserved to be treated like one.

“I’m sorry,” he said again. “I’m not usually an asshole. Most of the women who come in here are older,” he motioned to Agatha and Ethel, “and they enjoy flirting with me– _ being _ flirted with by me.” He quickly added, “That’s  _ not  _ me giving you an excuse for how I treated you just now. I just, I forgot that it’s not appropriate unless everyone is onboard with it.”

She was silent. He waited.

“Isn’t this the part where you tell me that you have a sister, or a mother, or a friend with a vagina and that you’d never want a man to treat them the way you just treated me?” she said, softening slightly. He shrugged. He wasn’t sure there was a right way to answer her question. He went with the truth.

“No...I mean, I have a mother and female friends, but I don’t have a sister. I guess I just wouldn’t like it if I walked into a coffee shop and the barista only saw me as an object.”

The woman with the moon-white hair and golden eyes smiled with a closed mouth. 

“You can stop shaking in your boots, barman,” she said. “I’ll have a coffee, black.”

Dorian indeed stopped shaking, letting out a sigh of relief as he rang her up. He poured a cup of coffee into a big green mug and passed it to her over the counter.

“Vans, actually,” he said. “I was shaking in my Vans.” She smiled, showing a bit of her teeth, as she took the mug from him.

“My name is Manon. And for the record, Dorian, that was a good answer.”

Dorian smiled at her as she walked away and took a seat by one of the windows. He wondered how many men had done what he had, and how many of them had given her an answer that satisfied her.

He went back to cleaning the machines. He restocked the cups and supplies and cleaned off the tables where people had left their plates and mugs. He refilled Manon’s coffee once or twice, and stopped to chat with Agatha and Ethel. He hadn’t said anything to Manon. He still felt like an ass.

_ That’s because you are an ass, _ he told himself. He tried not to cringe.

He checked the clock, it was a little past eight in the evening. He’d have to start closing within the next hour. He made his way behind the counter and began breaking things down. He went to the display case and started taking inventory of the sweets. Some of them would have to go. They’d been out for too many days and would be stale by tomorrow.

He grabbed a few frosted sugar cookies he knew Agatha and Ethel would like, then he grabbed a chocolate chip cookie. He offered the free cookies to Agatha and Ethel. They happily took them from him–smiling and flirting with him. He went back to the counter and grabbed the chocolate chip cookie.

Three feet from Manon’s table he stopped. This was a horrible idea. He looked back at the relative safety of the counter, then back at Manon. He wasn’t sure if he was already too close to abort this fool’s mission without looking like an idiot.

She looked up from her book–right at him.  _ Yep, _ he thought.  _ It’s too late for me now. _

“About half a second ago, I realized what this must look like,” he said, not moving any closer to her. “Like I’m some guy who didn’t hear ‘no’ the first time because society has taught me that women don’t mean what they say and are actually playing hard to get when they reject a guy.” 

He pursed his lips like a complete idiot. He was in such deep, unending shit. 

“I realize,” he continued, “that men probably buy you drinks and cookies all the time and expect you to be flattered by the gesture and then feel obligated to let them sit down with you, hit on you, ask for your number. And I want you to know that this is not that.” He let out a heavy sign. He just needed to shut up. “I’m sorry. I’m not normally such an asshole, or a rambling idiot.” He set the cookie down on her table, then picked it back up.

“This is not me asking for a second chance, or me trying to show you that I’m not an asshole, or that I can change your mind. This is a cookie that needs a good home because if it doesn’t find one, I’m going to have to throw away at the end of the night. And yes, this is a no-strings-attached-cookie that is my way of saying sorry for the...third time, I think–”

“Fourth,” she said, smiling. He felt his face flush red.

“Fourth time–thank you–because I can’t stop thinking about what a dick I was earlier, and for some reason, I need you to know I feel really bad. And I would consider myself a feminist, accept that what I did to you was decidedly not very feminist of me, and now I’m rambling. So I’m going to offer you this cookie, and you in no way shape or form have to accept it or even say thank you…yeah.”

_ God, Dorian, just shut up, _ he thought. He held out the plate. She looked at it. Then at him.

“Peace offering accepted,” she said. Dorian was visibly relieved as he set the plate down on her table. “Sadly,” she said. He froze like a deer in headlights. “I don’t like chocolate chip cookies.”

Dorian felt his mouth open, then close. “Oh,” was all he could say. He stood there, unsure of what to do. Unsure of what to say to end this torture so that he could just go back to work.

“I like oatmeal raisin cookies,” she said.

“I have those!” She chuckled at his blatant enthusiasm and relief. Dorian turned on his heel and practically ran to find a stale oatmeal raisin cookie. A second later, he was back at Manon’s table. “Here you go.” He set the plate down. She closed her book and picked up the cookie.

“Thanks,” she said, taking a bite of the cookie.

“Is that The Art of War?” he said, pointing to the book. She nodded.

“Have you read it?”

“Yeah. Well, yeah,” he said. “My friend Aelin gave it to me to read once. I read it. I understood it, but I’d never read it again. I’m more into fictional adventure books, with a romance subplot. Can I ask why you’re reading it?” She set the cookie down on the plate.

“I’m taking a class on the history of military strategy. It’s an interesting read. Not my usual genre either. I prefer thrillers–with or without a romance subplot.” Dorian nodded.

“To each their own.”

“To each their own,” she echoed.

“How’s the cookie?”

“Stale.”

“Oh good. I was worried I’d bring you one of the not stale cookies and then it would negate all my rambling.” She snorted. He stood there for a second longer, smiling like an idiot–feeling like one, too. “Well, this has been sufficiently awkward. I’m going to go back to my job. Enjoy your stale cookie.” She smiled, and it almost blinded him.

“I will. Thank you.”

Dorian turned and went back to work. 

Within thirty minutes, everyone had left. He locked the front door and began cleaning off the tables. He picked up Manon’s empty mug and placed it onto the empty cookie plate. He was about to ball up the few napkins she’d left on her table when one caught his eye. He picked it up. It read:

_ Dorian,  _

_ Thanks for the stale cookie, the awkward conversation, and for not being the asshole I thought you were. This is  _ not _ me leaving my number because I feel bad for embarrassing you, or because you gave me a free cookie, or because I’m rewarding you for trying (and failing) to hit on me. I leave my number of my own free will. _

_ –Manon _

Under her name she’d written her number. Dorian couldn’t help but smile as he tucked the napkin into the pocket of his jeans and finished cleaning. 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm PropShopHannah on tumblr


End file.
